A Winter's Tale
by charleygirl
Summary: London is shivering under heavy snow, but some are more careful than others when venturing into the cold...


**Author's Note:**_ This fic was written for the 'Winter Illness' challenge at **mere_appendix** on Livejournal. Any and all medical inaccuracies are mine and mine alone._

**

* * *

**

**A WINTER'S TALE**

Mrs Hudson insisted upon helping me on with my coat.

"You will take care, won't you, Doctor? It's treacherous underfoot, and I wouldn't want to hear of you taking a tumble," she said, smoothing a crease from my sleeve.

"I'll be careful, Mrs Hudson, I promise," I assured her. "I'm only going down to the paper shop. Three days of this snow has made me desperate for some fresh air."

"Well, I won't say I blame you. All I hope is that Mr Holmes has had the sense to stay indoors, wherever he is."

"Knowing Holmes, I find that highly unlikely," I said, and she shook her head, clucking her tongue in exasperation.

"I shall be having words with him when he returns, don't you worry, sir. Not come home since Monday, and no clue as to whether he's alive or dead….a little consideration for the rest of us wouldn't go amiss!"

I agreed. Holmes had gone out on an investigation the night before the blizzard struck London, and we had heard nothing from him since. Though I knew he could take care of himself, I could not subdue the nagging worry that lodged in my gut. The weather was the worst it had been in a decade, and there were daily horror stories in the newspapers of poor unfortunates found frozen solid in snow banks or dead in unheated lodgings. Despite the cold making my old war wounds ache, I could not in all conscience remain in our warm sitting room when Holmes was somewhere in the icy metropolis.

The pavement was slick beneath my feet as I emerged from the house, and I had to quickly catch hold of the railings to prevent a nasty fall. Using my stick to feel the way, I tentatively shuffled forwards until I reached the slightly safer fringe of soft snow by the kerb. Here it was a little easier to walk, and the snow crunched satisfyingly under my shoes as I made my way towards the Marylebone Road.

In spite of the bitter wind, it felt good to be out of the house, to breathe air that was not tainted by coal dust or tobacco. As it was still early the atmosphere was relatively clear, if frigid, and my lungs were grateful. There was little traffic about, and even fewer pedestrians. Those who lived off the main thoroughfares had little choice but to remain indoors, for in some areas the drifts were three feet deep. The bookseller on the corner and the wine merchants across the street had opened for business, but their premises were quite conspicuously free of customers.

I walked on, deciding to take a turn about Regent's Park before returning to collect my newspaper and thaw out by the fire. The occasional cab clopped its way past me, wheels cutting neat tracks through the snow, but I had the street practically to myself. It was an eerie feeling, and it was not long before I became aware that the footsteps I heard crunching upon the ice were not just my own. I stopped, and they stopped as well. Cautiously, I glanced over my shoulder, but I could see no one. A grocer's doorway was conveniently located to give my pursuer a hiding place, and so I picked up my pace once more, hearing the footfalls behind me fall into step with mine.

Eventually I reached the entrance to the park. Somewhere ahead of me I could hear shouting as children took advantage of the snow to enjoy themselves, but the gates were deserted, as was the street. I stopped and turned back the way I had come: there quite suddenly before me was a scruffy, lounging youth with an unshaven chin and a grimy cap pulled low over his eyes. In his hand he held a knife, which he raised towards my face.

"All right, guvnor," he rasped, mouth widening in a nasty gap-toothed smile, "Just 'and over yer wallet and no one gets 'urt. Understand?"

I drew myself up. "Your meaning is quite clear. However, I must emphatically refuse to comply."

The rough looked thoughtful for a moment. "Really? I'm sorry to 'ear that. Looks like we'll 'ave to convince yer then, don't it?"

I tightened my grip on my stick, for I had heard the crackling of the frozen undergrowth behind me. It was no surprise at all when the club came crashing down towards my head – I instinctively struck upwards with my stick, catching my attacker a good blow to the wrist. He howled, but did not drop his weapon, instead bringing it down once more to catch me a glancing blow on the temple. I staggered, my stick falling from my slackened grasp to hit the pavement with a clatter. There was a cry of triumph from the first rough, and I saw the watery sunlight glance from the blade of his knife as it flashed before my eyes.

Bracing myself for the inevitable, I tried to straighten, but my ears were ringing and my vision was blurred. I grabbed for the youth's wrist, to keep the blade away from my throat, but my hand clutched at thin air. A shout rang out, and I dimly became aware that the rough had gone. Catching hold of the wrought iron park gate, I pulled myself upright, shaking my head to clear it. As my vision righted itself I saw to my astonishment that the youth lay crumpled on the floor clutching his face – blood blossomed from between his fingers and he moaned pitifully. Above him a tall, dark figure grappled with my club-wielding assailant – I moved to offer assistance, but my rescuer felled his opponent with a neat left hook, sending him rolling into a snow bank.

My head pounded, and I felt myself sway, the ground coming up to meet me far too quickly. A strong hand grabbed my arm, keeping me on my feet, and I looked up into a concerned face, keen grey eyes peering anxiously at me beneath bushy brows.

"Are you all right, Watson?" a familiar voice, one that did not fit with the puffy, red face, asked. "Say something, man!"

For a moment I hesitated, my thought muddled and cloudy, but after a few seconds reality struck me like a blast of cold air. "Holmes!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Where the devil did you come from?"

"The park," he replied with a quick smile. "I have been shadowing these two since Monday – they turned over Asprey's in Bond Street on Saturday night. They saw their chance with you and took it, allowing me to make my move a little earlier than planned." Without letting go of my arm he turned and waved sharply – immediately four burly policemen appeared from behind the bushes and took charge of the recovering thieves.

While they were doing so, I managed to get my legs under me once more, the infernal ringing in my head beginning to subside. Holmes still looked at me with some worry from beneath his disguise – had I not known it was my friend standing there I would have been rather unsettled by the close proximity of such an uncouth, dangerous-looking individual. His cheeks were ruddy and chapped, crowned by thick red whiskers, his brows beetling, and the hair which struggled from under his battered hat did not seem to have seen the attention of a comb in weeks. It also appeared that he had somehow managed to lose three teeth since I had seen him last.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, his cultured voice completely at odds with his disreputable appearance. "I must apologise for that lump on your head, my dear fellow."

"It's only a knock, mild concussion at the most," I said. "But you're shivering, Holmes – where is your coat, your gloves?"

He sighed, and smiled again. "I think we should both benefit from a cup of Mrs Hudson's strongest tea and a lengthy sojourn by the fire. When – and only when – you have attended to that unfortunate injury, I will tell you exactly what happened."

I nodded, and then immediately wished I had not, allowing Holmes to tuck a hand under my elbow and lead me back towards Baker Street. The prospect of our rooms had rarely seemed so inviting.

* * *

"Oh, Doctor, there you are! I was starting to get worried - " Mrs Hudson's flow of motherly concern was brought up short when she clapped eyes upon Holmes. "Good heavens, who in the world is this?"

My friend touched his hat and said in a gruff voice, "This gent took a tumble on the ice, mum. I'm just seein' 'im home, like."

"I see. Well, thank you for your assistance," the good woman replied, the dignified set of her head becoming just a little haughty. "I'll bring some tea up, Doctor – you hurry and get by the fire. You're frozen solid!"

I did, and Holmes followed me, only for Mrs Hudson to bar his way.

"'E might need me 'elp on the stairs," he said, trying to dodge round her. She, however, was having none of it.

"That won't be necessary, thank you. He'll be quite safe with me. We mustn't take up any more of your time."

Holmes didn't move. Unfortunately he had met his match in our redoubtable landlady, who stood at the foot of the stairs with her arms crossed, blocking his further passage into the house. Despite the considerable difference in height, she was quite determined in her intentions.

There was stalemate for a moment before Holmes's rough façade finally cracked and he burst out laughing. Mrs Hudson stared, recognising the sound, and hurried towards him to slap him crossly on the arm.

"Mr Holmes - !"

"Mrs Hudson, you are a most faithful watchdog," he said, doffing his seedy hat to her.

She was not impressed, and fairly chased him up the stairs, reproaching him all the way for playacting and not sending word to tell her he had not been a victim of the dreadful weather. I busied myself with removing my freezing overcoat and searching my medical bag for a painkiller. My head was beginning to ache abominably. Holmes vanished into his room, pointedly closing the door on Mrs Hudson, who retreated below, muttering darkly about heedless tenants driving her into an early grave. By the time I had mixed my powder into a glass of water and drained it, he emerged, himself once more, wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. With the make-up gone he appeared extremely pale in contrast. Holmes's habits would never give him glowing complexion, but just at the moment he looked particularly unhealthy.

"Goodness, I am grateful for a fire," he declared, crouching down and extending his hand towards the blaze. He was still shivering, I noticed, which was odd for our rooms were warm – one would have expected the tremors to have begun to abate, but if anything they had grown worse. His fingers were clumsy as he pulled his dressing gown tighter about his spare frame.

"Where have you been for the last three days?" I asked, sinking into my armchair. "I was starting to wonder whether you had overbalanced into a snow bank."

"I spent my time in a variety of insalubrious and rather violent establishments in the East End, trying to track down our friends of this morning. Some of the sights which greeted me in the course of my investigations, Watson, after the snow fell…I hope…I hope never to witness such things again." Holmes shuddered, though whether from cold or revulsion I could not tell. He rubbed absently at his forehead, frowning. "Three…children frozen to death in their beds because…because their mother could not afford fuel for the fire and their father was in jail, arrested…arrested for murdering their landlord. The family was…was destitute, and when the man came again to demand the rent in des…desperation he struck out, and stabbed the landlord through the heart with a c-carving knife."

"Dear God," I said, horrified.

"That was not the…the worst of it. I - " Holmes broke off, his frown deepening. "I don't…I can't…"

"What's the matter, old man?" I asked, starting out of my chair. He was shivering quite uncontrollably now, despite the heat from the fire.

"Can't…can't think straight. Can't remember!" Frustrated, he stood up, and nearly fell headlong as he stumbled into the table beside his chair. I caught him and helped him to sit down once more, drawing the thick afghan which always lay across the back of the settee around his shoulders. As he hunched into the heavy fabric I laid a hand on his forehead and found it to be cool and clammy. Alarm bells began to ring in my mind as I recalled his lack of warm clothing earlier – he had braved the extreme cold with nothing more than a battered old pea jacket for protection. Fetching my thermometer I slipped it under his tongue – he did not protest, which was most unlike him for he hated fussing of any kind. As I waited I found his carotid artery and counted the beats – to my dismay his pulse was terribly weak. I removed the thermometer and discovered that which I had expected: 89F.

Suddenly my headache vanished, disregarded in the urgency of the situation. "Holmes," I said, taking his trembling hands and tucking them inside the rug, " Can you understand what I am saying?"

He was breathing slowly, in shallow gulps, and looked up at me vaguely.

"You are suffering from hypothermia," I told him as clearly as I could. "We need to get you warm again. All right?"

There was confusion in his eyes. "Warm…" he mumbled, "…yes…"

I banked up the fire, and went to ask Mrs Hudson for a pot of tea and as many hot water bottles as she could find. While she was making the preparations, I pulled all the blankets from Holmes's bed and brought them through to the sitting room to warm before the fire. I found a skullcap and thick muffler in his chest of drawers and used them to swaddle his head and neck, and when the blankets were sufficiently heated I wrapped them around him. He was not entirely aware of my ministration, his eyes gradually closing. They opened when I tapped his cheek.

"Holmes, you have to stay awake," I said. Almost immediately his eyelids fluttered closed again. I had to take action, for it would be dangerous for him to fall unconscious.

Making sure that he was still tightly wrapped in the blankets, I slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and carefully hoisted him to his feet. His head lolled drunkenly for a moment before he endeavoured to raise it at my urging, blinking owlishly at me from under heavy lids. I spoke to him constantly, encouraging him to take a step, and then another, until he was walking with me up and down the room. His steps were faltering, and he frequently stumbled, but I forced him on for I needed to keep the blood circulating in his veins.

Mrs Hudson arrived, awkwardly balancing a tray with a teapot and three ceramic 'pigs' filled with hot water upon it. I coaxed Holmes into drinking a cup of tea, having to hold it to his lips for his hands would not stop shaking. His shivering had begun to slow at last, but his awareness was still worryingly low. I wondered what had become of his coat, for I knew that he had been wearing it when he left the house on Monday night.

The hot tea inside him, I continued to march Holmes back and forth across the sitting room, talking to him all the while and asking him increasingly more complicated questions as the warmth and activity thankfully began to have an effect. His pulse rose, his breathing steadied, and, after another half an hour, I allowed him to return to the sofa, which Mrs Hudson had dragged closer to the fire. Settling him against the cushions, we bundled the blankets around him and tucked in the pigs at his feet. I took his temperature again, and was relieved to find that it had risen to 94F. Still not quite what it should be, but much, much better than before. I did not want to think what might have happened had I not decided to go for a walk – waiting to spring his trap, Holmes would have been out in the cold for far too long without adequate protection.

Gradually he came back to us, his gaze sharpening as the drowsiness receded. He lay there, propped up by a pile of pillows, sipping from a cup he now held with almost steady fingers as the steam from the hot drink rose lazily into the air. I sat in my armchair and watched him, assuring myself that the danger was past. That he was alert once more was confirmed when he gave me a quizzical glance, raising an eyebrow at my scrutiny.

"You are a fool, Holmes," I said. "You have seen for yourself the effects of the cold – it is an indiscriminate killer. Where is your overcoat?"

"In Wapping, currently being put to better use than that of covering my back," he replied. "Others had greater need of it than I."

I frowned. "You mean…"

"Yes, Watson." He sighed. "I left it with that poor woman. Had we not happened to come looking for her criminal brother-in-law, she would have followed her children, yet another victim of winter's dread embrace."

I prodded the coals in the grate, stirring them back into life, and watched the flames send brilliant red and yellow sparks up the darkened chimney. Though it was still relatively early, the lowering clouds which held the promise of yet more snow sucked away the sun's rays, leaving the room in a strange grey twilight.

"Well, Watson?" Holmes asked when I had been silent for some time. "Do you still think me a fool?"

Stiffly, I got to my feet, and took the empty teacup from his fingers, setting it aside. "No, I don't," I said as I pulled the blankets more closely around his shoulders, and tucked them over his hands. He smiled and let his head fell back against the pillow; his eyelids flickered, and closed, and this time I did not wake him. As he dozed I continued to observe him, until the warmth of the fire and the retreating daylight caused me to begin to drop into sleep myself.

"Brain without a heart indeed," I muttered, and thought I heard an answering snort from the sofa, though it was more likely to have been a snore.

I did not think I would ever get the measure of Sherlock Holmes.

**FIN**


End file.
